Photo by Judy Cole using a red IPhone 8 with a sparkly case.
I have an unusual fear of finding new and fresh relatives somewhere in the world as a result of having my DNA recorded. I don’t mean cousins and stuff like that – I mean brother or sister relatives. I really like the ones I have.
I DON NEED NO MO.
So, bringing this DNA Fuckery up to date, I horked up my saliva, sent it to Ireland, they determined that the sample sucked and sent me a new kit. This was January 2019 or sometime around there.
The new kit has been sitting here now for months. Every now and again I glance at it, frown and imagine that somewhere out there is yet another female, a bit older than me, with a high forehead. My, as yet unknown, sister.
Then my mind wanders to what my life would have been like with a sister in it. There were just the three of us kids growing up; two boys and of course, me. Another girl around at that time would have been nice. Help me defend against all the farts. At one point, when we were small, all three of us shared one bedroom. Mother of God, it stank in there. I watched those boys closely and they ate the same stuff as me and yet, they somehow turned it into blinding, green air.
A sister would have been fun to play with too, but I just had the boys and their friends so I was hucking rocks and starting stuff on fire instead. A sister might have rounded some of those sharper edges. I had Barbies and I played with them – I loved the clothes and little shoes. I still sniff new binders in stationery stores to see if they smell like my Barbie Doll Case.
But even Barbie and her fashionable clothes didn’t beat making a parachute out of my dad’s handkerchief and hucking a GI Joe off the roof. We all got done for that one because it was a 3-story house. Should never have been up there in the first place but GI Joe did float with his parachute for a few seconds before he dropped like a stone. That may have been what caught my mother’s attention – when he slammed by the window and hit the dirt. It was Epic. There were no survivors.
So, as I sit here now in the middle of the night with a cat in my lap, shedding, I remember how much fun we had and maybe a sister would have been a bad influence. She might have wanted to wear.. ugh .. dresses that matched or something equally horrifying. Clara, my sainted mother, tried that a few times. Mother-daughter outfits. I did not care for that idea. I was 8 years old and it did not sit well with me. Then, on Saturday night she would curl my hair with curlers for church the next day. Fuck me. They were made of indestructible plastic, the same stuff they are using to get to Mars right now – the recipe HAS NOT CHANGED. You can’t sleep with those things in your hair. The only motivation anyone would have is that they know they will be beautiful in the morning. I did not care what I looked like in the morning. I was 8.
She would take out the curlers in the morning and since my hair was parted in the middle, there was about 1 inch of straight hair and then a complete BOZO of curls. I looked like an idiot.
And do you think my brothers didn’t notice or decided to give me a Pass? No. Those fart-lighters were always right there, giggling and pointing when they knew Clara couldn’t see them. When I collected my evidence and presented my case to her as to how they were so mean, she would just take my file folder full of documents and photos and put it aside. I still crave Justice.
Okay, so Sunday morning, BOZO the clown, stinky brothers, Clara picking out my clothes for church, my dad shining everyone’s shoes. Military. He was so good at it too. The smell of that polish. Yum.
We would go to church, I would be humiliated and then we would come home. Eventually, I started to wake up before everyone else on Sunday morning, remove the curlers myself, and then dunk my head under the running water of the tub. Oddly enough, Clara stopped curling my hair and life returned to normal. Now here a sister would have been great to take some of the heat off me. She could be the curly haired one with the dress and I could just trail along behind. Damn. Maybe she could have worn that dumb hat with the elastic under the chin. Double damn.
Now I have this DNA kit still sitting here. It’s probably expired. If a sister came into my life now, would I have to host a brunch or something like that? I’ll Google it. What if she curls her hair every night with curlers and wears dresses? Like, house dresses. OMG, what if she listens to country music? I only wear skinny jeans and boots and I like Alternative Rock – what if she doesn’t smoke? Noooo. I hate her.
She’ll probably give me advice.
YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE GOTTEN THAT TATTOO. IT’S NOT HEALTHY.
WHY IS YOUR MUSIC SO LOUD?
YOU SMOKE TOO MUCH. THAT’S NOT HEALTHY.
ARE YOU PUTTING CREAMER IN YOUR COFFEE? AND IT’S NOT EVEN THE FAT-FREE? THAT’S NOT HEALTHY.
IS THAT TAKE-OUT AGAIN? YOU SHOULD EAT VEGETABLES.
WHAT IS SO FUNNY ON THAT COMPUTER OF YOURS? YOU’VE BEEN IN THERE LAUGHING FOR HOURS.
YOU SHOULD GO OUTSIDE.
Oh, she’s gotta go. WHAT – A – BITCH.
I’m done with the memories for the time being. Now, the whole purpose of this post is that I found a note in my office/apartment taped to my desk. It was written on a napkin and says DON’T FORGET TO SPIT. I WANT YOUR DNA. It was hanging there when I sat down at the computer the other day.
Bru can’t write. His dominant hand is paralyzed. I know, right? WTF?